Monday
by Yuval25
Summary: Harry woke up on Monday with a sore body and the British Government lying presumptuously behind him. SEQUEL to "Working for the British Government"! Please R&R! A little teaser for what's to come!
1. Chapter 1 - Monday

_I'M ALIVE!_

_Yeah, well, anyway, here's some exciting news!_

_I present you with the magnificent sequel to "Working for the British Government", the long-awaited piece of art - MONDAY!_

_A pause for appreciation..._

_So, I hope it'll exceed your expectations! Aaand, there's more to come. This is only a... prologue, of sorts. A teaser, if you will. I've got something else nearly ready and I think you'll like it. So stay tuned!_

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (it belongs to BBC) or the Sherlock Holmes series written by Arthur Conan Doyle. The Harry Potter book series belongs to J.K. Rowling.

Beta: Pussycatadamah

**Monday**

It was Monday. According to some people, Monday shouldn't exist. Others would claim it was a day of good fortune. To one Harry Potter, Monday was a pain in the ass. Literally.

He refused to open his eyes. He would not, under any circumstances, reveal his state of awareness to his companion. That was what he told himself repeatedly as heated hands raved over his body like flames, licking at his abdomen with ghostly fingertips. The man lying presumptuously behind him was most likely wearing his famous 'I know something you don't want me to know' smirk, judging by the tone of his breathing next to Harry's ear.

He struggled to keep his breath even as the fingers abandoned his upper body in favour of tracing down his thigh. He knew he had failed when he heard a chuckle from behind him.

"Mycroft," he groaned, in frustration or warning he couldn't tell.

The man got closer, making Harry _very_ aware of his need. "Just this once," Mycroft stated. It wasn't a plea or a request. If Mycroft says 'Jump', he asks how high. If Mycroft says 'Bend', he asks how low. And if Mycroft says sex… well, you get the point.

So in the end, Mr. Holmes was late for work. Being his own boss, he let it slide with a warning. Harry thought it was hilarious. Not that he could laugh right now. No, Harry was left to make errands with a twice sore behind and a very observant driver.

"Sunday, eh?"

"Shut up,"

Thinking about it, it really wasn't fair of him to snap at the driver like that.

Routine was tiresome.


	2. Chapter 2 - Mycroft

_Hello lovelies! This is chapter 2! Isn't it exciting? So here's a little smut for you. And some more plot. I told you there'd be more!_

_I hope you enjoy it, and don't forget to leave a review at the bottom!_

Betas_: **pussycatadamah** (awesome beta!), **CleopatraIsMyName** (the fastest beta you'll ever meet, who also I suspect possess ninja-skills and a time turner). Thank you both so much!_

_Warning: sexual situations (aka smut)_

**Mycroft**

Mycroft's thighs felt cool under Harry's hands. The man has been out in the snow on some super-secret meeting with a Russian anonymous for longer than he could afford, leaving him shivering all throughout the drive to his house despite the thick coat and several luxurious items he kept on his person to keep him warm. They didn't work, obviously. Harry kept his fussing to himself while he treated Mycroft with a warm oil back massage to comfort the sleep-deprived man.

Mycroft sighed at the warm touch, leaning back further into the mattress and soaking in the heat of the room, which Harry made sure remained the proper temperature, if not a bit warmer to take off the edge. While Mycroft still had his pants and low-cut, oversized, long-sleeved shirt on (he resented the suffocating sensation regular-collar, well-fitted shirts gave him), Harry was completely naked apart from his glasses, which hung poorly on his nose in a position that just screamed they would fall off with the smallest nudge. Harry didn't bother to spell them to stick in their place – Mycroft, after all, didn't know about magic and Harry was damned if he would let its existence be exposed to the nosiest, most powerful and resourceful Muggle man in Britain. He might be Harry Potter, but there was a limit to what even _he_ could get away with.

Harry slowly climbed up Mycroft's body, making sure to keep a small distance between their bodies; he had learned that Mycroft enjoyed the teasing, and in any case at least he didn't squish him. He paused when his face was directly above the man's, taking time to study the calm breaths. Mycroft's eyes were closed, a show of trust that Harry didn't get very often from the man. It encouraged him to continue further.

Harry didn't do things half-way. When Mr. Holmes, all business-like and without a bit of shame, explained to him the voluntary part of the job, the part where he made sure Mr. Holmes reached an orgasm during their… sessions, Harry decided he might as well enjoy it. It was just what he needed – no domestic crap, no relationship drama, and no shit from the media. Just sex. And good sex, at that.

Harry noted the change in Mycroft's breathing when he started softly kissing his lips. From what Harry had learned about Mycroft's past (which is not a lot, mind you), the man had been deprived of any intimate or affectionate attention during his early life. It was really no wonder he was so desperate for human touch, though he barely showed it and outright denied it. He was so sensitive when it came to the little things, the ones that radiated emotion. Once, Harry had toyed with the thought of bringing him to the edge only with those small touches. He didn't dare to act on it, though. He didn't want to lose his job.

He started trailing kisses down Mycroft's neck and along the nearly straight line of his shoulder. He raised his head once more and then lowered it again for a much deeper kiss, drawing a low moan out of the man. He positioned his elbow better on the bed and leaned on it, leaving his right hand free to cover the body below him with slow, soft touches. Pinching a nipple, Harry relished in the contented sigh that Mycroft released, a sense of pride enveloping him. It was good to know that he was at least good at _something_.

At least, Mycroft seemed to think he was, because not even five minutes later Mycroft was panting, his eyes clenched shut and lazy beads of sweat trailing down the sides of his forehead while he clutched the sheet for dear life. Harry swallowed the sneaky drops of sperm at the corners of his mouth and raised himself to pat the man's slightly damp hair. He then stood up and left for the bathroom, returning soon after with a small, damp towel to wipe the sweat off the previously-clean man.

Mycroft's shirt had been nearly ripped off by the man himself, but Harry managed to pull it off his body before he had the chance to tear the cloth – Merlin knew he was capable of that. Harry texted the guards that he would be opening one of the bedroom's windows to let some air in, and left it open for ten minutes before closing it of fear that Mycroft might catch a cold. He wrestled the sleepy man into his shirt, almost getting stabbed in the eye by the man's pointy, horribly strong fingers. He turned on the air conditioner and turned back to Mycroft, who had already fallen asleep.

The man was currently curled under a bunch of blankets, which probably cost more than Harry's entire wardrobe, going by their unusual softness and lack of tag. It was probably made especially for the overworked man.

Harry had gotten an erection during their activities, so he helped himself to Mycroft's guest bathroom (which was not as enormous as his main one, but huge enough to house a small family) and turned the water cool to get rid of it. He couldn't be gone for long of fear that Mycroft might wake up and need him for something, as the job consisted of seeing to Mr. Holmes's _every_ need.

He spent the night in Mr. Holmes's spare bedroom, a shout away if the man needed anything. There was so much security around the house that Harry figured it was alright for him to be sleeping in the next room, and not in Mr. Holmes's bed.

After turning off the lights and snuggling deep into tag-less blankets, Harry pondered this certain aspect of his job. Mr. Holmes was one of those men who thought they could do everything, please everyone. As smart as he was, the man had yet to realize it was impossible. Still, he tried. The pressure of work piled up, and in the end it was Harry's job to relieve it. It was important. He was practically keeping Britain sane. A tired Mr. Holmes could probably function higher still than the average human being, but his potential was wasted on coffee cups and heavy work overload.

Sighing, Harry turned the pillow upside-down as it had gotten warm. Tomorrow he would go see Teddy and Andromeda, and pay a small visit to Ron and Hermione, and newborn Hugo. Predictably, Ron's Weasley genes worked their magic and Hermione found herself pregnant barely a year after they had Rose. Molly helped Hermione with her baby-girl, of course, but that didn't save Ron from the vicious hexes Hermione sent his way on her hormone-crazed episodes. Harry wondered with a chuckle how long it would be until the next Weasley would be born.

Perhaps he ought to make bets with Charlie again.


End file.
